APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/books/little_wmn/CHAP20_23

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                            CHAPTER TWENTY

     I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting
of the mother and daughters.  Such hours are beautiful to live,
but very hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination
of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine
happiness, and that Meg's tender hope was realized, for when Beth
woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which
her eyes fell were the little rose and Mother's face.  Too weak
to wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close in the
loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was sat-
isfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited upon
their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which
clung to hers even in sleep.

     Hannah had `dished up' and astonishing breakfast for the
traveler, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any
other way, and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young
storks, while they listened to her whispered account of Father's
state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays
which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the
unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she
arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.

     What a strange yet pleasant day that was.  So brilliant and
gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first
snow.  So quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept, spent
with watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house,
while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door.  With a blissful
sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes,
and lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a
quiet harbor.  Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side, but rested
in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and brood over
her child, like a miser over some recovered treasure.

     Laurie meanwhile posted off to comfort Amy, and told his
story so well that Aunt March actually `sniffed' herself, and
never once said "I told you so".  Amy came out so strong on
this occasion that I think the good thoughts in the little chapel
really began to bear fruit.  She dried her tears quickly, restrain-
ed her impatience to see her mother, and never even thought of the
turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in Laurie's
opinion, that she behaved `like a capital little woman'.  Even
Polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl, blessed
her buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear", in
his most affable tone.  She would very gladly have gone out to
enjoy the bright wintry weather, but discovering that Laurie
was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal
the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote
a note to her mother.  She was a long time about it, and when she
returned, he was stretched out with both arms under his head,
sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains and
sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.

     After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake
up till night, and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been
effectually roused by Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother.
There probably were a good many happy little girls in and about
the city that day, but it is my private opinion that Amy was the
happiest of all, when she sat in her mother's lap and told her
trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of
approving smiles and fond caresses.  They were alone together
in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its
purpose was explained to her.

     "On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from
the dusty rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely
picture with its garland of evergreen.  "It is an excellent plan
to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when things vex
or grieve us.  There are a good many hard times in this life of
ours, but we can always bear them if we ask help in the right
way.  I think my little girl is learning this."

     "Yes, Mother, and when I go home I mean to have a corner
in the big closet to put my books and the copy of that picture
which I've tried to make.  The woman's face is not good, it's
too beautiful for me to draw, but the baby is done better, and
I love it very much.  I like to think He was a little child once,
for then I don't seem so far away, and that helps me."

     As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ child on his Mother's
knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made her
smile.  She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and after
a minute's pause, she added gravely, "I wanted to speak to you
about this, but I forgot it.  Aunt gave me the ring today. She
called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and
said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep me always.
She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's too
big.  I'd like to wear them Mother, can I?"

     "They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young
for such ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. March, looking at the plump
little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger,
and the quaint guard formed of two tiny golden hands clasped
together.

     "I'll try not to be vain," said Amy.  "I don't think I like
it only because it's so pretty, but I want to wear it as the girl
in the story wore her bracelet, to remind me of something."

     "Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing.

     "No, to remind me not to be selfish."  Amy looked so
earnest and sincere about it that her mother stopped laughing,
and listened respectfully to the little plan.

     "I've thought a great deal lately about my `bundle of
naughties', and being selfish is the largest one in it, so I'm
going to try hard to cure it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and
that's the reason everyone loves her and feels so bad at the
thoughts of losing her.  People wouldn't feel so bat about me
if I was sick, and I don't deserve to have them, but I'd like
to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm going
to try and be like Beth all I can.  I'm apt to forget my res-
olutions, but if I had something always about me to remind me,
I guess I should do better.  May we try this way?"

     "Yes, but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet.
Wear your ring, dear, and do your best.  I think you will prosper,
for the sincere wish to be good is half the battle.  Now I must
go back to Beth.  Keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will
soon have you home again."

     That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report
the traveler's safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth's room,
and finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting
her fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided
look.

     "What is it, deary?' asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand,
with a face which invited confidence.

     "I want to tell you something, Mother."

     "About Meg?"

     "How quickly you guessed!  Yes, it's about her, and though
it's a little thing, it fidgets me."

     "Beth is asleep.  Speak low, and tell me all about it.  That
Moffat hasn't been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.

     "No. I should have shut the door in his face if he had,"
said Jo, settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last
summer Meg left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences' and only
one was returned.  We forgot about it, till Teddy told me that Mr.
Brooke owned that he liked Meg but didn't dare say so, she was so
young and he so poor.  Now, isn't  it a dreadful state of things?"

     "Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an
anxious look.

     "Mercy me!  I don't know anything about love and such non-
sense!" cried Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt.
"In novels, the girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting
away, growing thin, and acting like fools.  Now Meg does not do
anything of the sort.  She eats and drinks and sleeps like a
sensible creature, she looks straight in my face when I talk
about that man, and only blushes a little bit when Teddy jokes
about lovers.  I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me as
he ought."

     "Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?'

     "Who?" cried Jo, staring.

     "Mr. Brooke.  I call him `John' now.  We fell into the way
of doing so at the hospital, and he likes it."

     "Oh, dear!  I know you'll take his part.  He's been good to
Father, and you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if
she wants to.  Mean thing!  To go petting Papa and helping you,
just to wheedle you into liking him." And Jo pulled her hair
again with a wrathful tweak.

     "My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how
it happened.  John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and
was so devoted to poor Father that we couldn't help getting fond
of him.  He was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he
told us he loved her, but would earn a comfortable home before
he asked her to marry him.  He only wanted our leave to love her
and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he could.
He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to
listen to him, but I will not consent to Meg's engaging herself
so young."

     "Of course not.  It would be idiotic!  I knew there was
mischief brewing.  I felt it, and now it's worse than I imagined.
I just wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the
family."

     This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile, but she said
gravely, "Jo, I confide in you and don't wish you to say anything
to Meg yet.  When John comes back, and I see them together, I can
judge better of her feelings toward him."

     "She'll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and
then it will be all up with her.  She's got such a soft heart,
it will melt like butter in the sun if anyone looks sentimentlly
at her.  She read the short reports he sent more than she did
your letters, and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes brown
eyes, and doesn't think John an ugly name, and she'll go and fall
in love, and there's an end of peace and fun, and cozy times to-
gether.  I see it all!  They'll go lovering around the house, and
we shall have to dodge.  Meg will be absorbed and no good to me
any more.  Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off,
and make a hole in the family, and I shall break my heart, and
everything will be abominably uncomfortable.  Oh, dear me!  Why
weren't we all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother."

     Jo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude
and shook her fist at the reprehensible John.   Mrs. March sighed,
and Jo looked up with an air of relief.

     "You don't like it, Mother?  I'm glad of it.  Let's send him
about his business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be
happy together as we always have been."

     "I did wrong to sigh, Jo.  It is natural and right you should
all go to homes of your own in time, but I do want to keep my girls
as long as I can, and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for
Meg is only seventeen and it will be some years before John can
make a home for her.  Your father and I have agreed that she shall
not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty.  If
she and John love one another, they can wait, and test the love
by doing so.  She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her
treating him unkindly.  My pretty, tender hearted girl!  I hope
things will go happily with her."

     "Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as
her mother's voice faltered a little over the last words.

     "Money is a good and useful thing, Jo, and I hope my girls
will never feel the need of it too bitterly not be tempted by
too much.  I should like to know that John was firmly established
in some good business, which gave him an income large enough to
keep free from debt and make Meg comfortable.  I'm not ambitious
for a splendid fortune, a fashionable position, or a great name
for my girls.  If rank and money come with love and virtue, also,
I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune, but
I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be had in
a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and some
privations give sweetness to the few pleasures.  I am content to
see Meg begin humbly, for if I am not mistaken, she will be  rich
in the possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than
a fortune."

     "I understand, Mother, and quite agree, but I'm disappointed
about Meg, for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by-and-by and
sit in the lap of luxury all her days.  Wouldn't it be nice?"
asked Jo, looking up with a brighter face.

     "He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March, but Jo
broke in . . .

     "Only a little, he's old for his age, and tall, and can be
quite grown-up in his manners if he likes.  Then he's rich and
generous and good, and loves us all, and I say it's a pity my
plan is spoiled."

     "I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and
altogether too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to
depend on.  Don't make plans, Jo, but let time and their own
hearts mate your friends.  We can't meddle safely in such
matters, and had better not get `romantic rubbish' as you
call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship."

     "Well, I won't, but I hate to see things going all criss-
cross and getting snarled up, when a pull her and a snip there
would straighten it out.  I wish wearing flatirons on our heads
would keep us from growing up.  But buds will be roses, and
kittens cats, more's the pity!"

     "What's that about flatirons and cats?" asked Meg, as she
crept into the room with the finished letter in her hand.

     "Only one of my stupid speeches.  I'm going to bed.  Come,
Peggy," said Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.

     "Quite right, and beautifully written.  Please add that I
send my love to John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over
the letter and gave it back.

     "Do you call him `John'?"  asked Meg, smiling, with her
innocent eyes looking down into her mother's.

     "Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond
of him," replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen
one.

     "I'm glad of that, he is so lonely.  Good night, Mother,
dear.  It is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here,"
was Meg's answer.

     The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and
as she went away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satis-
faction and regret, "She does not love John yet, but will
soon learn to.


                         CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

     Jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed
upon her, and she found it hard not to look mysterious and impor-
tant.   Meg observed it, but did not trouble herself to make
inquiries, for she had learned that the best way to manage Jo was
by the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being told every-
thing if she did not ask.  She was rather surprised, therefore,
when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed a patronizing
air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in turn assumed an air
of dignified reserve and devoted herself to her mother.  This left
Jo to her own devices, for Mrs. March had taken her place as nurse,
and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long
confinement.  Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge, and much
as she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for
he was an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax the
secret from her.

     She was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner
suspected a mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led
Jo a trying life of it.  He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threat-
ened, and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise
the truth from her; declared her knew, then that he didn't care;
and at last, by dint of perseverance, he satisfied himself that
it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke.  Feeling indignant that he was
not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his wits to work
to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.

     Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter and was
absorbed in preparations for her father's return, but all of a
sudden a change seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two,
she was quite unlike herself.  She started when spoken to,
blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing,
with a timid, troubled look on her face.  To her mother's inquiries
she answered that she was quite well, and Jo's she silenced by
begging to be let alone.

     "She feels it in the air--love, I mean--and she's going very
fast. She's got most of the symptoms--is twittery and cross,
doesn't eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners.  I caught her
singing that song he gave her, and once she said `John', as you
do, and then turned as red as a poppy.  whatever shall we do?"
said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however violent.

     "Nothing but wait.  Let her alone, be kind and patient, and
Father's coming will settle everything," replied her mother.

     "Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up.  How odd! Teddy
never seals mine," said Jo next day, as she distributed the
contents of the little post office.

     Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a
sound from Meg made them look up to see her staring at her
note with a frightened face.

     "My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her,
while Jo tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.

     "It's all a mistake, he didn't send it.  Oh, Jo, how could
you do it?" and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her
heart were quite broken.

     "Me!  I've done nothing!  What's she talking about?" cried
Jo, bewildered.

     Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled
note from her pocket and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully,
"You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you.  How could you be
so rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?"

     Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the
note, which was written in a peculiar hand.

     "My Dearest Margaret-

     "I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate
before I return.  I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think
they would consent if they knew that we adored one another.  Mr.
Laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet
girl, you will make me happy.  I implore you to say nothing to
your family yet, but to send one word of hope through Laurie to,

                                           "Your devoted John."

     "Oh, the little villain!  That's the way he meant to pay me
for keeping my word to Mother.  I'll give him a hearty scolding
and bring him over to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execute
immediate justice.  But her mother held her back, saying, with
a look she seldom wore . . .

     "Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first.  You have played
so many pranks that I am afraid you have had a hand in this."

     "On my word, Mother, I haven't!  I never saw that note
before, and don't know anything about it, as true as I live!"
said Jo, so earnestly that they believed her.  "If I had taken
part in it I'd have done it better than this, and have written
a sensible note.  I should think you'd have known Mr. Brooke
wouldn't write such stuff as that," she added, scornfully toss-
ing down the paper.

     "It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the
note in her hand.

     "Oh, Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.

     "Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with
shame.

     "Here's a scrape!  Do let me bring that wicked boy over to
explain and be lectured.  I can't rest till I get hold of him."
And Jo made for the door again.

     "Hush!  Let me handle this, for it is worse than I thought.
Margaret, tell me the whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting
down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.

     "I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look
as if he knew anything about it," began Meg, without looking up.
"I was worried at first and meant to tell you, then I remembered
how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I
kept my little secret for a few days.  I'm so silly that I liked
to think no one knew, and while I was deciding what to say, I
felt like the girls in books, who have such things to do.  Forgive
me, Mother, I'm paid for my silliness now.  I never can look him
in the face again."

     "What did you say to him?' asked Mrs. March.

     "I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet,
that I didn't wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak
to father.  I was very grateful for his kindness, and would be
his friend, but nothing more, for a long while."

     Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her
hands, exclaiming, with a laugh, "You are almost equal to
Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence!  Tell on, Meg.
What did he say to that?"

     "He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he
never sent any love letter at all, and is very sorry that my
roguish sister, Jo, should take liberties with our names.  It's
very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!"

     Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair,
and Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names.  All of a
sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes, and after looking
at them closely, said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever
saw either of these letters.  Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours
to crow over me with because I wouldn't tell him my secret."

     "Don't have any secrets, Jo.  Tell it to Mother and keep
out of trouble, as I should have done," said Meg warningly.

     "Bless you, child!  Mother told me."

     "That will do, Jo.  I'll comfort Meg while you go and get
Laurie.   I shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop
to such pranks at once."

     Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's
real feelings.  "Now, dear, what are your own?  Do you love him
enough to wait till her can make a home for you, or will you
keep yourself quite free for the present?"

     "I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have
anything to do with lovers for a long while, perhaps never,"
answered Meg petulantly.  "If John doesn't know anything about
this nonsense, don't tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their
tongues.  I won't be deceived and plagued and made a fool of.
It's a shame!"

     Seeing Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her
pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her
by promises of entire silence and great discretion for the
future.  The instant Laurie's step was heard in the hall, Meg
fled into the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone.
Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldn't come,
but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and stood
twirling his hat with a guilty air which convicted him at once.
Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like
a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt.  The
sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour,
but what happened during that interview the girls never knew.

     When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their
mother with such a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the
spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact.  Meg received
his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that
Brooke knew nothing of the joke.

     "I'll never tell him to my dying day, wild horses shan't
drag it out of me, so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do any-
thing to show how out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking
very much ashamed of himself.

     "I'll try,but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, I
didn't think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied
Meg, trying to hid her maidenly confusion under a gravely re-
proachful air.

     "It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be
spoken to for a month, but you will, though, won't you?"  And
Laurie folded his hands together with such and imploring gesture,
as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was
impossible to frown upon him in spite of his scandalous behavior.

     Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face relaxed, in
spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare
that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and
abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel.

     Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart
against him, and succeeding only in primming up her face into
an expression of entire disapprobation.  Laurie looked at her
once or twice, but as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt
injured, and turned his back on her till the others were done
with him, when he made her a low bow and walked off without a
word.

     As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more for-
giving, and when Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt
lonely and longed for Teddy.  After resisting for some time,
she yielded to the impulse, and armed with a book to return,
went over to the big house.

     "Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was
coming downstairs.

     "Yes, Miss, but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."

     "Why not?  Is he ill?"

     "La, no Miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is
in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gen-
tleman, so I dursn't go nigh him."

     "Where is Laurie?'

     "Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been
a-tapping.  I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's
ready, and there's no one to eat it."

     "I'll go and see what the matter is.  I'm not afraid of either
of them."

     Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's
little study.

     "Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out
the young gentleman in a threatening tone.

     Jo immediately knocked again.  The door flew open, and in
she bounced before Laurie could recover from his surprise.  Seeing
that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him,
assumed a contrite expression, and going artistically down upon
her knees, said meekly, "Please forgive me for being so cross.  I
came to make it up, and can't go away till I have."

     "It's all right.  Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo,"  was the
cavalier reply to her petition.

     "Thank you, I will.  Could I ask what's the matter?  You don't
look exactly easy in your mind."

     "I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie in-
dignantly.

     "Who did it?" demanded Jo.

     "Grandfather.  If it had been anyone else I'd have . . ."
And the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic ges-
ture of the right arm.

     "That's nothing.  I often shake you, and you don't mind,"
said Jo soothingly.

     "Pooh!  You're a girl, and it's fun, but I'll allow no man
to shake me!"

     "I don't think anyone would care to try it, if you looked
as much like a thundercloud as you do now.  Why were you treated
so?"

     "Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for.
I'd promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break
my word."

     "Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"

     "No, he would have the truth, the whole truth,and nothing
but the truth.  I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could
without bringing Meg in.  As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and
bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me.  Then I
bolted, for fear I should forget myself."

     "It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know, so go down and
make up.  I'll help you."

     "Hanged if I do!  I'm not going to be lectured and pum-
melled by everyone, just for a bit of a frolic.  I was sorry
about Meg, and begged pardon like a man, but I won't do it
again, when I wasn't in the wrong."

     "He didn't know that."

     "He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby.  It's
no use, Jo, he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of my-
self, and don't need anyone's apron string to hold on by."

     "What pepper pots you are! " sighed Jo. "How do you mean
to settle this affair?"

     "Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I
can't tell him what the fuss's about."

     "Bless you!  He won't do that."

     "I won't go down till he does."

     "Now, Teddy, be sensible.  Let it pass, and I'll explain
what I can.  You can't stay here, so what's the use of being
melodramatic?"

     "I don't intend to stay here long, anyway.  I'll slip off and
take a journey somewhere, and when Grandpa misses me he'll come
round fast enough."

     "I dare say, but you ought not to go and worry him."

     "Don't preach.  I'll go to Washington and see Brooke.  It's
gay there, and I'll enjoy myself after the troubles."

     "What fun you'd have!  I wish I could run off too," said
Jo, forgetting her part of mentor in lively visions of martial
life at the capital.

     "Come on, then!  Why not?  You go and surprise your father,
and I'll stir up old Brooke.  It would be a glorious joke.  Let's
do it, Jo. We'll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot
off at once.  I've got money enough.  It will do you good, and no
harm, as you go to your father."

     For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree, for wild as
the plan was, it just suited her.  She was tired of care and
confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father
blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hospi-
tals, liberty and fun.  Her eyes kindled as they turned wist-
fully toward the window, but they fell on the old house opposite,
and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.

     "If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital
time, but as I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper and stop at
home.  Don't tempt me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan."

     "That's the fun of it," began Laurie, who had got a willful
fit on him and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.

     "Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears.  "`Prunes
and prisms' are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to
it. I came here to moralize, not to hear things that make me
skip to think of."

     "I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I
thought you had more spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly.

     "Bad boy, be quiet!  Sit down and think of your own sins,
don't go making me add to mine.  If I get your grandpa to
apologize for the shaking, will you give up running away?"
asked Jo seriously.

     "Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished
to make up, but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeas-
ed first.

     "If I can manage the young one, I can the old one," mut-
tered Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad
map with his head propped up on both hands.

     "Come in!" And Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer
than ever, as Jo tapped at his door.

     "It's only me, Sir, come to return a book," she said blandly,
as she entered.

     "Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and
vexed, but trying not to show it.

     "Yes, please.  I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the
second volume," returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accept-
ing a second dose of Boswell's JOHNSON, as he had recommended
that lively work.

     The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little as he rolled the steps
toward the shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed.  Jo
skipped up, and sitting on the top step, affected to be searching
for her book, but was really wondering how best to introduce the
dangerous object of her visit.  Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect
that something was brewing in her mind, for after taking several
brisk turns about the room, he faced round on her, speaking so
abruptly that RASSELAS tumbled face downward on the floor.

     "What has that boy been about?  Don't try to shield him. I
know he has been in mischief by the way he acted when he came
home.  I can't get a word from him, and when I threatened to
shake the truth out of him he bolted upstairs and locked himself
into his room."

     "He did wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to
say a word to anyone," began Jo reluctantly.

     "That won't do. He shall not shelter himself behind a prom-
ise from you softhearted girls.  If he's done anything amiss, he
shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished.  Out with it, Jo.  I
won't be kept in the dark."

     Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo
would have gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft
on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she
had to stay and brave it out.

     "Indeed, Sir, I cannot tell.  Mother forbade it.  Laurie has
confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite enough.  We don't
keep silence to shield him, but someone else, and it will make
more trouble if you interfere.  Please don't.  It was partly my
fault, but it's all right now. So let's forget it, and talk about
the RAMBLER or something pleasant."

     "Hang the RAMBLER!  Come down and give me your word that
this harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or
impertinent.  If he has, after all your kindness to him, I'll
thrash him with my own hands."

     The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew
the irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his
grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary.  She obediently
descended, and made as light of the prank as she could without
betraying Meg or forgetting the truth.

     "Hum  . . .  ha . . . well, if the boy held his tongue be-
cause he promised, and not from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's
a stubborn fellow and hard to manage," said Mr. Laurence, rubbing
up his hair till it looked as if he had been out in a gale, and
smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief.

     "So am I, but a kind word will govern me when all the king's
horses and all the king's men couldn't," said Jo, trying to say
a kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape
only to fall into another.

     "You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer.

     "Oh, dear no, Sir. You are rather too kind sometimes, and
then just a trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don't you
think you are?"

     Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look
quite placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech.
To her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw
his spectacles onto the table with a rattle and exclaimed frank-
ly . ..

     "You're right, girl, I am!  I love the boy, but he tries my
patience past bearing, and I know how it will end, if we go on so."

     "I'll tell you, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech
the minute it was made.  She meant to warn him that Laurie would
not bear much restraint, and hoped he would be more forebearing
with the lad.

     Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down,
with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which
hung over his table.  It was Laurie's father, who had run away
in his youth, and married against the imperious old man's will.
Jo fancied her remembered and regretted the past, and she wished
she had held her tongue.

     "He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only
threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying.  I often
think I should like to, especially since my hair was cut, so if
you ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys and look among
the ships bound for India."

     She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved,
evidently taking the whole as a joke.

     "You hussy, how dare you talk in that way?  Where's your
respect for me, and your proper bringing up?  Bless the boys
and girls!  What torments they are, yet we can't do without
them," he said, pinching her cheeks good-humoredly.  "Go and
bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it's all right, and
advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his grandfather.  I
won't bear it."

     "He won't come, Sir.  He feels badly because you didn't be-
lieve him when he said he couldn't tell.  I think the shaking
hurt his feelings very much."

     Jo tried to look pathetic but must have failed, for Mr.
Laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day was won.

     "I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking
me, I suppose.  What the dickens does the fellow expect?"  And
the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.

     "If I were you, I'd write him an apology, Sir.  He says he
won't come down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and
goes on in an absurd way.  A formal apology will make him see
how foolish he is, and bring him down quite amiable.  Try it. He
likes fun, and this was is better than talking.  I'll carry it
up, and teach him his duty."

     Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his specta-
cles, saying slowly, "You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being
managed by you and Beth.  Here, give me a bit of paper, and let
us have done with this nonsense."

     The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would
use to another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss
on the top of Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the
apology under Laurie's door, advising him through the keyhole to
be submissive, decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities.
Finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work,
and was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down
the banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his
most virtuous expression of countenance, "What a good fellow you
are, Jo! Did you get blown up?" he added, laughing.

     "No, he was pretty mild, on the whole."

     "AH!  I got it all round.  Even you cast me off over there,
and I felt just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically.

     "Don't talk that way, turn over a new leaf and begin again,
Teddy, my son."

     "I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I
used to spoil my copybooks, and I make so many beginnings there
never will be an end," he said dolefully.

     "Go and eat your dinner, you'll feel better after it.  Men
always croak when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the
front door after that.

     "That's a `label' on my `sect'," answered Laurie, quoting
Amy, as he went to partake of humble pie dutifully with his
grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly
respectful in manner all the rest of the day.

     Everyone thought the matter ended and the little cloud
blown over, but the mischief was done, for though others forgot
it, Meg remembered.  She never alluded to a certain person, but
she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever,
and once Jo, rummaging her sister's desk for stamps, found a
bit of paper scribbled over with the words, `Mrs. John Brooke',
whereat she groaned tragically and cast it into the fire, feeling
that Laurie's prank had hastened the evil day for her.


                         CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

     Like sunshine after a storm were the peaceful weeks which
followed.  The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began
to talk or returning early in the new year.  Beth was soon able
to lie on the study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-
beloved cats at first, and in time with doll's sewing, which had
fallen sadly behindhand.  Her once active limbs were so stiff
and feeble that Jo took her for a daily airing about the house
in her strong arms.  Meg cheerfully blackened and burned her
white hands cooking delicate messes for `the dear', while Amy,
a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving
away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters
to accept.

     As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt
the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing
utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor
of this unusually merry Christmas.  Laurie was equally impract-
icable, and would have had bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal
arches, if he had had his own way.  After many skirmishes and
snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched
and went about with forlorn faces, which were rather belied by
explosions of laughter when the two got together.

     Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a
splendid Christmas Day.  Hannah `felt in her bones' that it was
going to be an unusually fine day, and she proved herself a
true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to
produce a grand success.  To begin with, Mr. March wrote that
he should soon be with them, then Beth felt uncommonly well
that morning, and, being dressed in her mother's gift, a soft
crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the window
to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie.  The Unquenchables had
done their best to be worthy of the name, for like elves they
had worked by night and conjured up a comical surprise.  Out in
the garden stood a stately snow maiden, crowned with holly,
bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll
of music in the other, a perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her
chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing from her lips
on a pink paper streamer.

                   THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH

              God bless you, dear Queen Bess!
                May nothing you dismay,
              But health and peace and happiness
                Be yours, this Christmas day.

              Here's fruit to feed our busy bee,
                And flowers for her nose.
              Here's music for her pianee,
                An afghan for her toes,

              A portrait of Joanna, see,
                By Raphael No. 2,
              Who laboured with great industry
                To make it fair and true.

              Accept a ribbon red, I beg,
                For Madam Purrer's tail,
              And ice cream made by lovely Peg,
                A Mont Blanc in a pail.

              Their dearest love my makers laid
                Within my breast of snow.
              Accept it, and the Alpine maid,
                From Laurie and from Jo.

     How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and
down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo
made as she presented them.

     "I'm so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I
couldn't hold one drop more," said Beth, quite sighing with con-
tentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the
excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious
grapes the `Jungfrau' had sent her.

     "So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed
the long-desired UNDINE AND SINTRAM.

     "I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy
of the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a
pretty frame.

     "Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of
her first sild dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it.

     "How can I be otherwise?" said Mrs. March gratefully, as her
eyes went from her husband's letter to Beth's smiling face, and
her hand carressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut
and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened on her
breast.

     Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in
the delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is.  Half
an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could
only hold one drop more, the drop came.  Laurie opened the parlor
door and popped his head in very quietly.  He might just as well
have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war whoop, for his
face was so full of suppressed excitement and his voice so treach-
erously joyful that everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a
queer, breathless voice, "Here's another Christmas present for the
March family."

     Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked
away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to
the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say
something and couldn't.  Of course there was a general stampede,
and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for
the strangest things were done, and no one said a word.

     Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of
loving arms.  Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and
had to be doctored by Laurie in the china closet.  Mr. Brooke
kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently ex-
plained.  And Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and never
stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father's boots in
the most touching manner.  Mrs. March was the first to recover
herself, and held up her hand with a warning, "Hush!  Remember
Beth."

     But it was too late.  The study door flew open, the little
red wrapper appeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the
feeble limbs, and Beth ran straight into her father's arms. Never
mind what happened just after that, for the full hearts overflowed,
washing away the bitterness of the past and leaving only the sweet-
ness of the present.

     It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody
straight again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing
over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she
rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began
to thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which
Mr. Brooke suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and
seizing Laurie, he precipitately retired.  Then the two invalids
were ordered to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one
big chair and talking hard.

     Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how,
when the fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor, to
take advantage of it, how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was
altogether a most estimable and upright young man.  Why Mr. March
paused a minute just there, and after a glance at Meg, who was
violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring
lift of the eyebrows, I leave you to imagine.  Also why Mrs.
March gently nodded her head and asked, rather abruptly, if he
wouldn't like to have something to eat.  Jo saw and understood
the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine and beef tea,
muttering to herself as she slammed the door, "I hate estimable
young men with brown eyes!"

     There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day.
The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up,
stuffed, browned, and decorated.  So was the plum pudding, which
melted in one's mouth, likewise the jellies, in which Amy reveled
like a fly in a honeypot.  Everything turned out well, which was
a mercy, Hannah said, "For my mind was that flustered, Mum, that
it's a merrycle I didn't roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey
with raisins, let alone bilin' of it in a cloth."

     Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr.
Brooke, at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement.
Two easy chairs stood side by side at the head of the table, in
which sat Beth and her father, feasting modestly on chicken and a
little fruit.  They drank healths, told stories, sang songs,
`reminisced', as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly good time.
A sleigh ride had been planned, but the girls would not leave their
father, so the guests departed early, and as twilight gathered, the
happy family sat together round the fire.

     "Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we
expected to have.  Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short
pause which had followed a long conversation about many things.

     "Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at
the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke
with dignity.

     "I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching
the light shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes.

     "i'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered
Beth, who sat on her father's knee.

     "Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims,
especially the latter part of it.  But you have got on bravely,
and I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon,"
said Mr. March, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four
young faces gathered round him.

     "How do you know?  Did Mother tell you?' asked Jo.

     "Not much.  Straws show which way the wind blows, and I've
made several discoveries today."

     "Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him.

     "Here is one." And taking up the hand which lay on the arm
of his chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on
the back, and two or three little hard spots on the palm.  "I
remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and your
first care was to keep it so.  It was very pretty then, but to
me it is much prettier now, for in this seeming blemishes I read
a little history.  A burnt offering has been made to vanity, this
hardened palm has earned something better than blisters, and I'm
sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long
time, so much good will went into the stitches.  Meg, my dear,
I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white
hands or fashionable accomplishments.  I'm proud to shake this
good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be
asked to give it away."

     If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she
received it in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the
approving smile he gave her.

     "What about Jo?  Please say something nice, for she has tried
so hard and been so very, very good to me," said Beth in her father's
ear.

     He laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite,
with and unusually mild expression in her face.

     "In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the `son Jo' whom I
left a year ago," said Mr. March.  "I see a young lady who pins
her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles,
talks slang,  nor lies on the rug as she used to do.  Her face is
rather thin and pale just now, with watching and anxiety, but I
like to look at it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is
lower.  She doesn't bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of
a certain little person in a motherly way which delights me.  I
rather miss my wild girl, but if I get a strong, helpful, tender-
hearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite satisfied.  I don't
know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know
that in all Washington I couldn't find anything beautiful enough
to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars my good girl sent me."

     Jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin
face grew rosy in the firelight as she received her father's praise,
feeling that she did deserve a portion of it.

     "Now, Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.

     "There's so little of her, I'm afraid to say much, for fear
she will slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used
to be," began their father cheerfully.  But recollecting how nearly
he had lost her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek
against his own, "I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll keep you so,
please God."

     After a minute's silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on
the cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining
hair . . .

     "I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands
for her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and
has waited on every on with patience and good humor.  I also ob-
serve that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has
not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears, so I con-
clude that she has learned to think of other people more and of
herself less, and has decided to try and mold her character as
carefully as she molds her little clay figures.  I am glad of
this, for though I should be very proud of a graceful statue made
by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter with
a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others."

     "What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had
thanked her father and told about her ring.

     "I read in PILGRIM'S PROGRESS today how, after many troubles,
christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies
bloomed all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do
now, before they went on to their journey's end," answered Beth,
adding, as she slipped out of her father's arms and went to the
instrument, "It's singing time now, and I want to be in my old
place.  I'll try to sing the song of the shepherd boy which the
Pilgrims heard.  I made the music for Father, because he likes
the verses."

     So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the
keys, and in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again,
sang to her own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a sing-
ularly fitting song for her.

              He that is down need fear no fall,
                He that is low no pride.
              He that is humble ever shall
                Have God to be his guide.

              I am content with what I have,
                Little be it, or much.
              And, Lord!  Contentment still I crave,
                Because Thou savest such.

              Fulness to them a burden is,
                That go on pilgrimage.
              Here little, and hereafter bliss,
                Is best from age to age!


                        CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

     Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters
hovered about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to
look at, wait upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a
fair way to be killed by kindness.  As he sat propped up in a
big chair by Beth's sofa, with the other three close by, and
Hannah popping in her head now and then `to peek at the dear
man', nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness.  But
something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none
confessed the fact.  Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another
with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg.  Jo
had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at
Mr. Brooke's umbrella, which had been left in the hall.  Meg
was absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang,
and colored when John's name was mentioned.  Amy said, "Every-
one seemed waiting for something, and couldn't settle down,
which was queer, since Father was safe at home," and Beth
innocently wondered why their neighbors didn't run over as
usual.

     Laurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing Meg at the
window, seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for
he fell down on one knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his
hair, and clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon.
And when Meg told him to behave himself and go away, he wrung
imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and staggered round the
corner as if in utter despair.

     "What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing and trying to
look unconscious.

     "He's showing you how your John will go on by-and-by. Touch-
in, isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully.

     "Don't say my John, it isn't proper or true," but Meg's voice
lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please
don't plague me, Jo, I've told you I don't care much about him, and
there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and
go on as before."

     "We can't, for something has been said, and Laurie's mischief
has spoiled you for me.  I see it, and so does Mother.  You are not
like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me.  I
don't mean to plague you and will bear it like a man, but I do wish
it was all settled.  I hate to wait, so if you mean ever to do it,
make haste and have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly.

     "I can't say anything till he speaks, and he won't, because
Father said I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work
with a queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite
agree with her father on that point.

     "If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would
cry or blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a
good, decided no."

     "I'm not so silly and weak as you think.  I know just what
I should say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken
unawares.  There's no knowing what may happen, and I wished to
be prepared."

     Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had
unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty
color varying in her cheeks.

     "Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more
respectfully.

     "Not at all.  You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be
my confidente, and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by,
perhaps, in your own affairs of this sort."

     "Don't mean to have any.  It's fun to watch other people
philander, but I should feel like a fool doing it myself," said
Jo, looking alarmed at the thought.

     "I think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked
you."  Meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane
where she had often seen lovers walking together in the summer
twilight.

     "I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man,"
said Jo, rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.

     "Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, `Thank
you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that
I am too young to enter into any engagement at present, so please
say no more, but let us be friends as we were."

     "Hum, that's stiff and cool enough!  I don't believe you'll
ever say it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do.  If he
goes on like the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather
than hurt his feelings."

     "No, I won't.  I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and
shall walk out of the room with dignity."

     Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the
dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her
seat and begin to sew as fast as if her life depended on finish-
ing that particular seam in a given time.  Jo smothered a laugh
at the sudden change, and when someone gave a modest tap, opened
the door with a grim aspect which was anything but hospitable.

     "Good afternoon.  I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see
how your father finds himself today," said Mr. Brooke, getting a
trifle confused as his eyes went from one telltale face to the
other.

     "It's very well, he's in the rack.  I'll get him, and tell it
you are here."  And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well
together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a
chance to make her speech and air her dignity.  But the instant she
vanished, Meg began to sidle toward the door, murmuring . . .

     "Mother will like to see you.  Pray sit down, I'll call her."

     "Don't go.  Are you afraid of me, Margaret?"  And Mr. Brooke
looked so hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very
rude.  She blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he
had never called her Margaret before, and she was surprised to
find how natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it.  Anxious
to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a
confiding gesture, and said gratefully . . .

     "How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father?
I only wish I could thank you for it."

     "Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small
hand fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much
love in the brown eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she
both longed to run away and to stop and listen.

     "Oh no, please don't, I'd rather not," she said, trying to
withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.

     "I won't trouble you.  I only want to know if you care for
me a little, Meg.  I love you so much, dear,"  added Mr. Brooke
tenderly.

     This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg
didn't make it.  She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and
answered, "I don't know," so softly that John had to stoop down
to catch the foolish little reply.

     He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled
to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand grate-
fully, and said in his most persuasive tone, "Will you try and
find out?  I want to know so much, for I can't go to work with
any heart until I learn whether I am to have my reward in the end
or not."

     "I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering was she was so
fluttered, yet rather enjoying it.

     "I'll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to
like me.  Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?"

     "Not if I chose to learn it, but . . ."

     "Please choose to learn, Meg.  I love you to teach, and this
is easier than German," broke in John, getting possession of the
other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face as he bent
to look into it.

     His tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look
at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and
that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his
success.  This nettled her.  Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in
coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps
in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a
sudden and took possession of her.  She felt excited and
strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a capri-
cious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly,
"I don't choose.  Please go away and let me be!"

     Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air
was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such
a mood before, and it rather bewildered him.

     "Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following
her as she walked away.

     "Yes, I do.  I don't want to be worried about such things.
Father says I needn't, it's too soon and I'd rather not."

     "Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by-and-by?  I'll
wait and say nothing till you have had more time.  Don't play
with me, Meg.  I didn't think that of you."

     "Don't think of me at all.  I'd rather you wouldn't," said
Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience
and her own power.

     He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like
the novel heroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his
forehead nor tramped about the room as they did.  He just stood
looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her
heart relenting in spite of herself.  What would have happened
next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at
this interesting minute.

     The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew,
for she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of
Mr. March's arrival, drove straight out to see him.  The family
were all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made
her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them.  She did surprise
two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a
ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.

     "Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady with a rap
of her cane as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the
scarlet young lady.

     "It's Father's friend.  I'm so surprised to see you!" stam-
mered Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.

     "That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down.  "But
what is Father's friend saying to make you look like a peony?
There's mischief going on, and I insist upon knowing what it
is," with another rap.

     "We were only talking.  Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella,"
began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely
out of the house.

     "Brooke?  That boy's tutor?  Ah! I understand now.  I know
all about it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your
Father's letters, and I made her tell me. You haven't gone and
accepted him, child?" cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.

     "Hush! He'll hear.  Shan't I call Mother?" said Meg, much
troubled.

     "Not yet.  I've something to say to you, and I must free my
mind at once.  Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook?  If you
do, not one penny of my money ever goes to you.  Remember that,
and be a sensible girl," said the old lady impressively.

     Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing
the spirit of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed
doing it.  The best of us have a spice of perversity in us,
especially when we are young and in love.  If Aunt March had
begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would probably have
declared she couldn't think of it, but as she was preemptorily
ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind that
she would.  Inclination as well as perversity made the decision
easy, and being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady
with unusual spirit.

     "I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can
leave your money to anyone you like," she said, nodding her
head with a resolute air.

     "Highty-tighty!  Is that the way you take my advice, Miss?
You'll be sorry for it by-and-by, when you've tried love in a
cottage and found it a failure."

     "It can't be a worse one than some people find in big
houses," retorted Meg.

     Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl,
for she did not know her in this new mood.  Meg hardly knew
herself, she felt so brave and independent, so glad to defend
John and assert her right to love him, if she liked. Aunt March
saw that she had begun wrong, and after a little pause, made a
fresh start, saying as mildly as she could, "Now, Meg, my dear,
be reasonable and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and don't
want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the
beginning. You ought to marry well and help your family.  It's
your duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed
upon you."

     "Father and Mother don't think so.  They like John though
he is poor."

     "Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a
pair of babies."

     "I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.

     Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture.
"This Rook is poor and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"

     "No, but he has many warm friends."

     "You can't live on friends, try it and see how cool they'll
grow.  He hasn't any business, has he?"

     "Not yet.  Mr. Laurence is going to help him."

     "That won't last long.  James Laurence is a crotchety old
fellow and not to be depended on.  So you intend to marry a man
without money, position, or business, and go on working harder
than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days
by minding me and doing better?  I thought you had more sense,
Meg."

     "I couldn't do better if I waited half my life!  John is
good and wise, he's got heaps of talent, he's willing to work
and sure to get on, he's so energetic and brave.  Everyone likes
and respects him, and I'm proud to think he cares for me, though
I'm so poor and young and silly," said Meg, looking prettier than
ever in her earnestness.

     "He knows you have got rich relations, child.  That's the
secret of his liking, I suspect."

     "Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing?  John is above
such meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so,"
cried Meg indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of
the old lady's suspicions.  "My John wouldn't marry for money, any
more than I would.  We are willing to work and we mean to wait. I'm
not afraid of being poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I
shall be with him because he loves me, and I . . ."

     Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't
made up her mind, that she had told `her John' to go away, and that
he might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.

     Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having
her pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's
happy young face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.

     "Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair!  You are a willful
child, and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly.
No, I won't stop.  I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to
see your father now.  Don't expect anything from me when you are
married.  Your Mr. Book's friends must take care of you.  I'm done
with you forever."

     And slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in
high dudgeon.  She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her,
for when left alone, Meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to
laugh or cry.  Before she could make up her mind, she was taken
possession of by Mr. Brooke, who said all in one breath, "I couldn't
help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for
proving that you do care for me a little bit."

     "I didn't know how much till she abused you," began Meg.

     "And I needn't go away, but my stay and be happy, may I, dear?"

     Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and
the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and dis-
graced herself forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes,
John," and hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.

     Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly
downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no
sound within, nodded and smiled with a satisfied expression, saying
to herself, "She has seen him away as we planned, and that affair
is settled.  I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over
it."

     But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon
the threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with
her mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes.  Going in to exult over
a fallen enemy and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banish-
ment of an objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold
the aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strong-
minded sister enthroned upon his knee and wearing an expression of
the most abject submission.  Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold
shower bath had suddenly fallen upon her, for such an unexpected
turning of the tables actually took her breath away.  At the odd
sound the lovers turned and saw her.  Meg jumped up, looking both
proud and shy, but `that man', as Jo called him, actually laughed
and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished newcomer, "Sister Jo,
congratulate us!"

     That was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much,
and making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished
without a word.  Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by
exclaiming tragically as she burst into the room, "Oh, do somebody
go down quick!  John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"

     Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself
upon the be, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful
news to Beth and Amy.  The little girls, however, considered it a
most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from
them, so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her
troubles to the rats.

     Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon, but
a great deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his
friends by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit,
told his plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he
wanted it.

     The tea bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise
which he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper,
both looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal.
Amy was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity, Beth
beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the
young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly
evident Aunt March was right in calling them as `unworldly as a pair
of babies'.  No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the
old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of
the family began there.

     "You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?"
said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch
she was planning to make.

     "No, I'm sure I can't.  How much has happened since I said that!
It seems a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream
lifted far above such common things as bread and butter.

     "The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather
think the changes have begun," said Mrs. March.  "In most families
there comes, now and then, a year full of events. This has been such
a one, but it ends well, after all."

     "Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very
hard to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for Jo loved
a few persons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost
or lessened in any way.

     "I hope the third year from this will end better.  I mean it
shall, if I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at
Meg, as if everything had become possible to him now.

     "Doesn't  it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a
hurry for the wedding.

     "I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems
a short time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face
never seen there before.

     "You have only to wait, I am to do the work," said John begin-
ning his labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which
caused Jo to shake her head, and then say to herself with an air of
relief as the front door banged, "Here comes Laurie.  Now we shall
have some sensible conversation."

     But Jo was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing
with good spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for `Mrs.
John Brooke', and evidently laboring under the delusion that the
whole affair had been brought about by his excellent management.

     "I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does,
for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done
though the sky falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his
offering and his congratulations.

     "Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good
omen for the future and invite you to my wedding on the spot,"
answered Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his
mischievous pupil.

     "I'll come if I'm at the ens of the earth, for the sight of
Jo's face alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey.
You don't look festive, ma'am, what's the matter?" asked Laurie,
following her into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned
to greet Mr. Laurence.

     "I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear
it, and shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly.  "You
can't know how hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued
with a little quiver in her voice.

     "You don't give her up.  You only go halves," said Laurie
consolingly.

     "It can never be the same again.  I've lost my dearest friend,"
sighed Jo.

     "You've got me, anyhow.  I'm not good for much, I know, but
I'll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life.  Upon my word I will!"
And Laurie meant what he said.

     "I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged.  You are always
a great comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.

     "Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow.  It's all
right you see.  Meg is happy, Brooke will fly round and get settled
immediately, Grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly
to see Meg in her own little house.  We'll have capital times after
she is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then
we'll go abroad on some nice trip or other.  Wouldn't that console you?"

     "I rather think it would, but there's no knowing what may happen
in three years," said Jo thoughtfully.

     "That's true.  Don't you wish you could take a look forward and
wee where we shall all be then?  I do," returned Laurie.

     "I think not, for I might see something sad, and everyone looks
so happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved." And Jo's
eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the
prospect was a pleasant one.

     Father and Mother sat together, quietly reliving the first
chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty years ago.
Amy was drawing the lovers,who sat apart in a beautiful world of
their own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the
little artist could not copy.  Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily
with her old friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it
possessed the power to lead him along the peaceful way she walked.
Jo lounged in her favorite low seat, with the grave quiet look which
best became her, and Laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his
chin on a level with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest
aspect, and nodded at her in the long glass which reflected them
both.


     So the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy.  Whether it
ever rises again, depends upon the reception give the first act of
the domestic drama called  LITTLE WOMEN.